Musings of Mary Watson
by Amberlin
Summary: Just a little encounter and subsequent musings from Mary Watson about the great detective. Read at your own risk, I take liberties here.


**I was a little hesitant to post this; I've been sitting on it for weeks now since I didn't know how it would be reacted to. But I decided to just go for it; its different than most of the stories here, and that's a plus even if you do balk at the subject and tone. **

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John always told me that he never could recall a moment when I was not completely collected. Even that night in Sholto's house, when the danger and unknown had persuaded my hand to grip his in fear, I did not faint, or cry out, or attempt to run. 

Granted, accidentally pouring tea on your favorite dressing gown while attempting not to burn some teacakes paled in comparison to that night. Nonetheless, I was feeling the strong urge to sit down on my kitchen floor and indulge in a good cry. It was hardly the end of the world and I knew that I was simply overwhelmed with the temporary loss of our invaluable servant, and the thought of a night without John in the house. I was also aware that my sudden emotionalism was perhaps brought on by another . . . recent development that had been brought to my attention.

So I resolved myself to taking a deep breath and staying true to that unflappability that my husband so admired about me. I patted at my dressing gown with a damp piece of linen and set the teacakes on the burner to cool a bit. My plans for a quiet evening by the fireplace with a novel and something to nibble on were not off to a very bright start. Those prospects declined even more so when I heard a soft knock on my front door. I glanced at my pocket watch on the end table as I passed through the main hall, wondering who would be visiting me at a quarter to eleven at night.

My revered unflappability was nowhere in evidence when I took in the sight of my husband's former lodge mate, the celebrated detective, standing on my front porch, his head bleeding and his hands soiled with dirt and something else I couldn't see in the poor light.

He nodded at me casually. John had once described his eyes as pieces of cutting flint. Never had this been truer than at this moment, the color set off by the dark red blood dripping down to his cheek.

"Are you alright?" I blurted out, without responding to the formal greeting he tossed out, as if standing outside my door with various injuries was nothing out of the ordinary - as was his way.

He glanced easily over my petite head. "Is Doctor Watson home?"

"John has been waylaid with a patient. He told me he would be absent the entire night." I informed him, already searching my mind for where Imogen stocked the bandages and antiseptics.

A brief look of despair marred his face before he nodded once again and turned to leave without a parting word. I took the bold step of putting my hand on his arm to stop him. He raised an eyebrow at me. I tried not to falter under that expecting stare.

"Do come inside and let me clean your wounds, Mr. Holmes." I couldn't bring myself to call him by his first name. I'd done so once and he'd had the audacity to laugh and, though the reaction hadn't been malicious or meant to shame me, I'd never felt comfortable once again being so familiar.

"It would only take a moment . . . and I just baked some teacakes." John, in one of our more open moments, had accidentally revealed to me that Holmes was particularly vulnerable to the idea of sweets; a fact that I was not above using to my advantage when I felt it was justified.

He didn't move for a moment, before looking about the quiet street as if concerned with who observed him entering my home so late, and upon seeing the neighboring houses darkened, he crossed the threshold and stood on the tiling of my hall as I locked the door, looking a bit awkward.

"You can wait in the sitting room. I'll go get the tea tray."

"Is Imogen in?" He asked suddenly.

"No, I'm afraid she came down with the sniffles and headache after church and stayed with her family today."

"That's what I deduced." He supplied after a moment in which I could see his mind shifting over all the ramifications of an evening spent alone in the house of a married woman.

I, for one, decided to ignore the obvious uncertainties and went to fetch the tray without seeing him to the room. He'd been beneath our roof before and knew his way around without my aid.

I gathered the tea tray, a bowl of warm water, and my wits, and made my way back to the parlor. When I arrived, he was sitting on the small divan, his head back and his tongue moving around the side of his mouth.

"Have you lost a tooth?" I asked as I slid the tray down next to his seat.

"Fortunately not." He answered, not at all surprised by my deduction. He straightened and accepted a cup, sipping lightly at it and then setting it down with an unsteady hand.

I dipped a square cut of linen into the warm water to wash his forehead off. As his hand brushed past mine on the table, I felt how cold the rough skin of his palm was and remembered that he had not worn a coat or gloves.

"My goodness, you're chilled to the bone." I exclaimed, grabbing hold of his hand and giving it a few vigorous rubs before remembering myself and dropping it. I took the linen up once more, embarrassed by my incidental impropriety but Mr. Holmes didn't even seem to notice. He held out his hand once more, apparently assuming that I wished to use the linen to wash it. I grasped him by the very tips of his fingers and went to work. He looked as though he'd been in a tough fight; his hand was bloodied as though he'd hit the ground or a wall. I scrubbed away blood and dirt from between his long fingers that soiled the cloth with a watery crimson stain.

For once, I was glad that he paid no more note of me than he would a nurse or doctor.

I cleaned the blood from his face next, happy to see that the wound had stopped bleeding. He looked paler than usual; his oddly creamy skin now a pallid shade. We spoke no words to each other and, after a searching glance about my face that warned me that perhaps any secrets I was hoping to keep to myself for the time being were completely obvious to him, his grey eyes trailed about the room tiredly. I didn't know Mr. Holmes as well as I should have, considering that I was wed to his closest associate, but I could see that something was deeply troubling him this night. I knew not to broach the subject though; John had made it quite clear that the detective only spoke when he felt inclined.

I left to remove the bloody water and linen and when I returned he was deep asleep on the couch, his head on the soft arm rest. I went to move the tray, trying not to disturb him, but sat across from him instead, taking the rare moment to watch him.

My husband was a handsome man; his eyes were kind, the color of dark chocolate and his smile was pleasant. Holmes was handsome as well, though he was John's opposite in every way. His features were strong, almost cutting, but well formed. The cut of his nose and his wide mouth always seemed to me to hint at a Grecian background, though John was certain his family was of French descent. With his eyes closed, he was less intimidating and finer looking than I'd ever seen him before, though there were lines under and around his eyes that told me he was not at ease, even while asleep. He slept with the heavy weight of someone completely exhausted.

I remember suddenly the first time I'd met him. I'd heard of him before I'd come to his lodge, obviously, and knew he was not an ordinary man. The tales I'd heard of him had been grandiose, awe-inspiring almost. I'd been nervous to see him, as if appearing before royalty itself.

And my goodness, he had been imposing.

I think most would feel the way I felt on that fateful day; Mr. Holmes had a queer way of both drawing you in and pushing you away. I immediately respected him, admired him, perhaps even felt a feminine draw to him, but I was never the type to pass my hand through a candle flame, no matter how curious I was about its dangerous beauty. I knew that it would be like staring into the sun to attempt to get closer. And I saw immediately that he was not the sort to allow anyone to, even if they were courageous enough.

My infatuation had been short-lived; I'd sat in the seat across from him and attempted not to blush and stammer. His friend had been kind and I'd felt an instinctive shift towards him throughout the interview. His encouraging words and looks helped me through my narrative and softened the imposing and intense stare of his extraordinary companion.

Once the meeting had ended and I'd found myself on the street outside their lodging, relief had washed through me - as if one had been holding my neck, strangling my air and I was now suddenly released. My lungs hurt and my head swam, and though I was happy to be away, a small part of me found it more painful to be free.

I found myself wanting to see the doctor again, but dreaded seeing the detective. His stare had been stripping, as if by just a searching glance, he'd known every detail about me. A notion as disconcerting as it was shamefully exciting.

The next time I'd seen him, we'd taken that tense carriage ride to meet my unknown letter writer. I'd observed quite quickly that the good doctor had been taken with me, a fact he advertised quite clearly with his scattered and nervous conversation. I'd found him terribly amusing, my affections being pulled in his direction by his obvious tenderness and sensitivity. Midway through one incoherent war story, I'd chanced to glance at Mr. Holmes who sat next to his friend and saw he was staring at me. Upon catching his eye, he'd actually _smiled_.

We'd fascinated him. Human nature always did and he saw right through our mating dance as clearly as he saw through that large window he used to look down at the denizens of London passing to and from beneath his rooms. And that's what we were to him, tiny little mysteries to hold his interest. And at the moment, our interplay was the most arresting thing to him.

Upon hearing that we were to be married, that we'd resolved our internal fight against our feelings, that interest turned off. I'd recognized it immediately. I'd come to thank him for his help, and he'd been cordial, even kind, but his eyes never settled fully on me. I was no longer a subject worthy of his undivided attention now that I was only an ordinary woman who was going to be married and no longer the object of his friend's secret admiration. I had represented the titanic struggle the doctor was tangled in within himself; I was the crisis, the _mystery_.

Now I was simply a wife.

A small part of me missed that feeling, the idea that when he was truly and undividedly focused on you, you were the center of the world. It was an elevated feeling, an almost religious experience in its intensity. It was quite improper for me to feel, being an affianced woman, but there was nothing I could do to erase the emotion it had caused, and the sudden void I felt now that I was no more interesting to him than any other woman he might pass on the street.

I had felt a secret flush of joy when John had related Mr. Holmes words to me; that I would have made an admirable detective. He was a tolerant man to bestow such a compliment on a woman, and, I daresay, an even more astute one to see that I was no simpleton; that my deductive skills were more than adequate. Those quick observations that I was capable of had helped me bear through more than my share of encounters with the unfathomable detective, and had even helped me find the appropriate way to deal with him at the pre-wedding celebration when I'd found myself obliged to dance with him, despite our mutual wish to avoid it; I'd merely chatted him up about his current case, watching as his eyes took on that charming sparkle they assumed when he spoke of his work.

My quickness also helped me deduce that the youthful widow that rented her rooms to him was more than just the youthful widow who rented her rooms to him. A fact that John never observed in all his years of lodging with him, before taking up his practice and settling with me into his own home.

I never once regretted my choice to take up with John. I loved him with all my being, and I was much more suited to his warm and supportive disposition than I would ever have been to the Detective's daunting personality. John was a strong comfort to me in my stressful times and I wouldn't have desired anything different.

And John was the sort of man to accept a shoulder to lean on when he truly needed it, as he would a week later, when he would return from a spontaneous trip to Switzerland without his closest friend and with the weight of grief and guilt on his shoulders.

After a moment of quiet observation, I turned down the gas and left him there, making my way to my own bedchamber to retire. When I awoke the morning after, he was gone.


End file.
